


be careful what you wish for

by icygrace



Category: Reign (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, POV Alternating, Snippets, season 1 AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:14:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23210779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icygrace/pseuds/icygrace
Summary: “Aside from a crown or Mary, I bet he gets anything, or anyone, he wants.”
Relationships: Kenna/Sebastian "Bash" de Poitiers, King Henry II/Kenna (Reign)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 29





	be careful what you wish for

**Author's Note:**

> Season 1 AU fic. Some dialogue from or adapted from the original pilot script and other episodes.

Once Sebastian leaves after delivering King Henry’s message, Greer finally says what they’ve all been thinking. “Fine, I’ll say it. If he’s been here all along, how did we miss him?”

“He was just the king’s bastard and we were nine,” Kenna answers. She sighs. He’s _gorgeous_ , and yet – “Why does he have to be so utterly unmarriageable?”

“Don’t count him out,” Greer counters. “He obviously has the king’s favor now. Aside from a crown or Mary, I bet he gets anything, or anyone, he wants.”

\---

She finds herself meeting Sebastian’s eyes across the room. The king’s impossibly handsome bastard son, who seems to be everywhere lately. For a moment, it feels as if those bright eyes of his can see right through her and they are the only two people in the world.

After the dance with her friends, she looks up and she sees him again, approaching her. As he comes closer, she can see the charming half-smile on his face and the appreciation in his eyes.

“Lady Kenna. Pleasure to see you again.”

“Likewise,” she says, smiling perhaps more widely and brightly than their duenna would like, more than a meant-to-be-demure lady-in-waiting should.

“Such a lovely smile and such . . . lively dancing.”

She feels herself flush, a reaction that baffles her. It’s not as if she’s unused to compliments from boys and men. But there is something dark, mysterious, different about Sebastian. “You flirt with everyone, don’t you?” she asks, hoping his answer will cool her strange, sudden new feelings. From what she knows of him, she expects he will say “absolutely everyone” with a cheeky grin.

“Only the prettiest girls,” he says instead.

She notices the king looking at them closely.

He follows her gaze. “Oh, don’t worry, I doubt those narrowed eyes are for you. He’s probably still angry that I beat him when we sparred earlier. My father can be a very sore loser.”

She laughs. “So you’re good with a sword, are you?”

“Very good,” he corrects lowly. She’d swear the color of his eyes deepens and darkens before her very eyes to match his tone. “Some would say the best swordsman at court.”

She understands that he’s not talking about the sword he wields in battle or the training yard anymore and she feels a warm flush spread from her cheeks to her chest at the bold words, the beginnings of a delicious yet maddening feeling.

\---

That feeling spreads through her body later, as she and her friends watch the consummation of King Philip and Princess Elisabeth’s marriage from their hiding spot.

She takes off for a quieter, more isolated part of the castle, trying to ignore the stares of the men she passes. Driven by pure instinct, she hikes up her skirts and slips her hand beneath, fingers sliding between her thighs until she reaches the barrier of her unmentionables, which she pushes aside to try and relieve that aching wanting feeling that’s driving her mad. She is _so_ _close_ when someone comes from behind – a man – and presses his hand against her.

She turns her head to face him and freezes, horrified to have been caught – and by the _king of France_ , of all people! She’ll be sent back to Scotland, humiliating and shaming herself and her family. They’ll disown her – “Your Majesty,” she manages to choke out.

“May I?”

Hardly daring to believe it, she nods.

The king puts his hand under her dress and begins kissing her.

And what a kiss it is.

\---

In profile, she looks so very disappointed as she watches the festivities outside go on without her. She drops down beside him without a word. “Your father is a confusing man.”

He has to admit that he’s surprised by her bluntness. “Yes, he is.”

She’s moved into a more languid, lounging position now, but she still doesn’t look at him as she speaks. “Is he a punishing man if he doesn’t get the exact thing he wants the moment he wants it?”

“Hard to imagine a more uncomfortable conversation about one’s father.”

“You don’t even know what I’m talking about, specifically,” she retorts, rolling her eyes.

He looks at her then. “I know exactly what you’re talking about,” he says, telling her the same story he’s seen play out far too many times over the years. “His attention drifted to you and now it’s drifting elsewhere. Am I right?” When she looks away and down without answering, he passes her the bottle of wine he’s been nursing.

She takes a long drink and holds onto it.

“He’s not punishing you, he’s playing you,” he explains. “He likes to play and he likes to win, but know this about him: a victory without effort is worse than a defeat.” It’s positively masochistic of him to advise her how to ensnare his father, but it’s not as if she’ll settle for a knight when she has her sights set on a king.

\---

Francis had complained to him of their father’s refusal to help Mary and then he’d had an idea as he sat there with Kenna.

Normally, he would not dream of going against his father – he knows he and his mother are entirely dependent on royal favor – but his idea might help Francis and Mary and would definitely answer the question that has been driving him half-mad.

Doing this half-sauced may not be the best idea he’s ever had, but it would likely not have occurred to him at all if he’d been sober.

“If the Scottish alliance is worth saving, we need to send troops,” Francis begins.

“We’ve had this talk before.”

“Not quite.” Francis looks to him then.

“We see the way that you look at the Lady Kenna and the way that she looks at you.”

“Is that because you’re looking at her, too, Bash?”

Francis’s eyebrows rise.

He ignores the dig. It’s hardly the first time his father has poached women who interested him. “We know your pattern. Now, we’re not sure that you’ve slept with her yet,” he continues.

“What’s this?”

Francis picks up where he left off. “But I wonder how your Medici wife and, more important to you, your French mistress, will react when they find out that you moved in on a new girl. I think we both know that Diane and my mother have a way of making life very difficult when they wish, even for a king.”

“Finally. Very well, king in waiting.”

“I’m not –”

“We’ll try it your way. Win or lose, you will answer for it. That’s what kings do.”

Francis nods.

“There are six companies of men quartered between us and the channel. You’ll send our fastest rider to mobilize them. Do you know who our fastest rider is?”

Francis looks at him again.

He nods back.

“Send a message to all six captains. Tell them that they’ll board ship at Outreau,” their father orders.

“Are you sure you’re all right to ride?” Francis asks with some concern.

“I am a riding fiend, little brother. You’ll be happy, Scotland will be happy, Mary will be happy, and Mary will stay,” he promises.

“Just be careful,” Francis cautions.

“Aren’t I always?”

“Well, if always means never.”

\---

Everything feels so far away, as if he is hearing and seeing it all underwater.

“How is he?” demands a commanding voice he immediately recognizes as his father’s.

“He’s gravely injured. I can tend to his wounds, ease the pain, but I make no guarantees.”

Every word feels like another sword slashing through his body, but he _must_ speak. He must tell them . . . “Father . . . the English . . . rode out from Calais . . . to face us.” Every breath is shallow, sharp, and painful. “We never made it to the ships. It was a slaughter.”

“He shouldn’t be talking. I’ll give him a potion, put him to sleep. Clear the room. It’s the best thing for him,” Nostradamus says in that strange, soothing voice of his.

“Bash,” says Francis. “Bash, I’m so sorry.”

Some liquid is forced down his throat then.

“Come. Come,” are the last words he hears before it all goes black again.

\---

“Before you left, you said Francis, Mary, and Scotland would be happy and you nearly died for it. What about you, Bash? What do _you_ want?”

“The pleasure of helping my brother and his betrothed and her people.”

“And I’m sure that was reward enough,” his father says skeptically.

“Certainly, Father.”

“What of the Lady Kenna?”

He sits up so fast he’s certain he’s torn his stitches. “What of her?”

“Lie back,” his father orders. “Francis is right; at even the suspicion of a new girl, Catherine and your mother would make my life hell. It’s not worth it. And I know you’ve taken a fancy to her. Do you want her for yourself?”

“I –”

“I am not the only she looks at,” his father continues.

He swallows, surprised that his fiercely competitive father would admit such a thing. And it hardly makes sense, after the conversation he had with Kenna about his father before he was injured. “Father, I –”

“What about a title, lands? Your mother’s always wanted those things for you.”

“She has, but I’m happy with whatever you see fit to give me.”

“Or whatever I see fit to withhold.” His father sighs. “That is a courtier’s answer, Bash, and you know it. You’ve never acted the courtier with me and I never want you to. You are my son; you needn’t curb your tongue with me. You know I’ve never wished to withhold anything from you; it is all Catherine’s doing. But . . . you’ve been so recently injured in the crown’s service that perhaps the time is finally right. If you were any other man, I would surely reward you now. And, of course, you could not marry a woman like the Lady Kenna if you remain untitled. Her family would never stand for it and their cooperation is necessary to our English endeavors.”

“Marry?” he nearly squeaks.

“Yes. Would you marry her, no questions asked, because it’s a union blessed by your king and father?”

He swallows hard, stunned at the direction of the conversation. Certainly there is something bewitching about Kenna; he's barely been able to get her out of his head. But he’s never contemplated _marriage_ before. Not for himself. He's flirted and enjoyed himself immensely, with women who would never want or expect such a thing.

“Bash?” His father prompts. “Won't you?” From his tone, it seems as though he’s already made up his mind.

There is no use in fighting it. Why fight it?“As you wish, Your Majesty.”

“Good man. I think Anjou would do quite nicely for you, and to the devil with Catherine at last. On this matter at least,” his father adds ruefully.

_Anjou._ A duchy, and the woman he can’t stop thinking about for his duchess. “I – I hardly know what to say,” he manages at last. “Mother will be so pleased.”

“Oh, she certainly will be.” His father grins lasciviously then.

“Father,” he warns, disgusted.

“Where do you think you came from, exactly? The Holy Ghost?”

“I know where I came from, but I don’t need to hear about it!”

His father scoffs.

“Truly, Father, thank you.”

“It’s much more enjoyable to give you things than the others –”

His legitimate half-siblings, of course.

“You don’t take anything for granted.”

“I never will,” he says quietly.

“It’s a quite a sacrifice, I’ll have you know.”

“Giving me Anjou?”

“No, the Lady Kenna. She’s delectable. I –”

“Father!”

“Jealous already,” his father laughs knowingly. “You’ll enjoy having her in your bed, I promise you that.”

\---

On their wedding night, before he can take her in his arms, Kenna _thanks_ him.

He'd tease her, tell her she flatters him, but he can hear the seriousness in her voice and it puzzles him. She's already told him that the wedding was everything she could've dreamed and more. It had, in his opinion, been needlessly extravagant, but it had pleased Kenna - and his mother, though she's decidedly less pleased by the choice of bride. "For what?"

"For not resenting my past," she says quietly.

"I could never resent you," he says fervently, lifting her hand to kiss her palm. "I promise you that."

Her heartfelt sigh is one of relief.

And then he begins to kiss her elsewhere. "I know it's your first time, so -"

"Bash," Kenna interrupts, pulling away, pushing him away. Her eyes are wide. "I - I thought you knew. I thought the king -" She pauses, painfully.

"What about the king?" he presses.

"And me." She wrings her hands.

_I promise you that._

His father was so confident and knowing because he’d already had her.

"Oh, don't look like that, Bash. Please, I thought he'd told you, I swear." 

_Would you marry her, no questions asked, because it’s a union blessed by your king and father?_

How many other courtiers has his father foisted discarded mistresses on before? He is only the latest.

He sees in his mind’s eye the happiness he'd thought he'd have with his wife go up in flames from a spark lit by his father, leaving nothing but the taste of ashes in his mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a different - jumpier, less complete-feeling - style than my usual and could be more fully developed, but it's already been sitting in a folder for years, so it's likely this version or none.
> 
> And WOW . . . it's been over 2 years since I last posted something. Hard to believe.


End file.
